Murder Is Just A Job
by ARightRoyalPain
Summary: The on-going tale of Marc Dargreaves, mass murderer with a slight dash of sociopath. Reviews are always welcome, and please,tell your friends! Just thought I'd explain here, updates are going to be few and far between at this point, with the Exams and what-not! But stay tuned, because there will be updates eventually!
1. Just a Job

Kill. Simple enough really; 1 word, 1 syllable, 1 meaning. It's ironic that a word with such a simple meaning could have such convoluted consequences. Killing a dictator would bring a county to its knees, killing a milk man would result in some spoiled milk. There's one other thing that kill can be associated with- Employment.

That's what Marc Dargreaves did for a living. Kill, murder, execute, terminate, nullify, neutralise. Dress it up whichever way you like, it all comes down to the same thing; ending a life. Killing is a special type of skill; something which, fortunately, they don't teach at school.

Luckily for Marc, he was a natural.

This one was simple, a pleasant walk in the park compared to his previous case. Somebody has taken something they shouldn't, take it back. If Marc had one complaint had his life, it was that his occupation was formulaic; Person X has wronged person Y, and so they want them to be Z. When you've spent 10 years in the job like Marc, it starts to get easy to guess what Z is. Somebody forgets their payment money; Z is a beating, somebody has an affair with a Power-players wife, Z is a castration. 10 years is a long time for anybody in this business, especially for guy with as many enemies as Marc. Surprisingly, being a murder-for-hire doesn't result in becoming loved by everyone. Mind you, the arrogant prick part probably doesn't do him any favours. Marc had no family, no innocent daughter that he would die for. He did it for the cash, and what a payload it was.

The rain was hammering down Sickle Street as Marc stalked down his prey. It was a long wide pedestrian street, which made it all the more impressive that the street was overflowing with people, today being the final day of the carnival. What was once an orgy of fine colours and even finer liquor was now just a dull, water-stained fiasco. Markets, some well-maintained and others looking as though a sewing machine had a violent fit, were crammed along the street. The state of the carnival reflected the people, and the people reflected the place. The shops were boarded up, the windows smashed in; a harsh sign of even harsher times. The price of most commodities had risen by a laughable amount; except many people didn't laugh when they went hungry for the night. Fortunately for Marc, people were the commodity that never shrunk in value. A man, dressed in entirely in dark navy blue, rolled his fedora in such an absent minded way if you didn't know it was a sign you'd walk straight past it. The patio chair the man was sitting in was in complete contrast to the local cafe behind him, one of the few shops still open. The rain splattering against the deck umbrella in the table gave off a false sense of calm around the man. Just as expected, the crowd gave him no attention, instead clamouring to steal the latest bargain, or perhaps to just plain old steal. It was a curious thing for Marc to be out in public; for all he knew, his next target could be the stall owner ripping off customers, or the mother who just picked a man's pocket.

"This seat taken?"Marc enquired to the man. He knew it wasn't, but formality is nothing if not a bitch.

"No, please, I could do with the company" He responded, in a smooth, calming voice. The sort of voice people associate with a politician. Perhaps, in another life, he might've made Minister. But for now, he was stuck as a courier.

"I don't believe I know your name?"

"I don't believe you give a shit" responded Marc, quick as a whip. "I hate formalities."

"As do I my friend, as do I!" the man laughed, "For today, just call me Jeremy."

"Your 'name' is nowhere near as important as what you're supposed to tell me." Marc enjoyed talking down to his superior, and not relish the prospect of overtime.

"Out of my entire workforce, Marc, you're by far my favourite." Jeremy muttered to him, "I mean, who else could pull off the greasy, overweight look like you do"

"I didn't pick this disguise!"

"Oh, course not, I did. I thought having to worry about your appearance might bring you down a peg or two."

"Are you in a constant state of worry, Jeremy?"

"Please, I'm wearing a navy blue suit with matching fedora and leather shoes that probably cost more than you'll make this entire year! So, do you want the information or not?" Jeremy growled at him, letting his carefully created persona slip. He'd probably have to go on an acting course for that; the thought made Marc happy.

"No, I was just here for small talk" Marc responded. "I think you might have me confused with someone else?"

"Oh, shut up and take the envelope" Jeremy's temper was always quick to rise, especially when dealing with a case like this. A man of God, he didn't exactly favour sending somebody to the pearly gates; However, Marc had no such issues. He went to fish the envelope out of his jacket pocket, but instead grabbed a hand full of air. "Oh, crap!"

"Looking for this?" Marc laughed, waving the envelope in front of his face. "You really shouldn't leave your jacket unattended" He added, with a slight wink.

"Have you read it ye-"

"Earl Ray, James. 36. Caucasian White. British. Runs a front for a local money laundering operation. Seems like a classy guy!" Marc was used to skim reading documents for the important facts by now; 'Jeremy' loved to over-engorge on the details. In fact, 'Jeremy' loved to over-engorge in general.

"And we'd like to have this one alive, please" Jeremy sighed, as if he already knew the response.

"You know I can't promise that"

"Sadly, I do. Just... Don't do anything stupid, or rash, ok? This is a top-priority thing we have going on here"

"I still don't understand why a bunch of assassins, thieves, spies and diplomats care about their public image?!"

"Because we aren't a bunch of killers, crooks and spies, and I swear to god this is the last time I'll tell you!" Jeremy said, with a passion in his voice that signalled how offended he was.

"We're Aurors!"


	2. A Slight Complication

Marc never considered what he did a legitimate profession. He sees it as being a human bin-man, taking out life's trash. They call it an occupation; slap the name 'Auror' on it, and suddenly you're supposed to be a 5 year olds hero. Marc never had the hero part down, and his internal review showed it. He'd been suspended 94 times, with more confirmed murders than any other Auror; if you combined the other top two murderers, he'd still have a lead of 219 kills. Marc had a permanent spot at the local therapist, an appointment he failed to attend for over 2 years.

"I trust you to do the Job" Jeremy said in a very solemn tone. He stood up, slipping his fedora on his head and adjusting his coat. "I suppose I better leave the bill then? Or have you finally found some 'Normal' money?"

"Until they make money out of something I don't wipe my ass with, I won't touch it."

Jeremy laughed, and chucked a fistful of notes down at the tab. He picked his umbrella up and strolled away, whistling his attempt at a merry tune. Jeremy never was particularly merry; or emotive in any way. Marc pretended to read the menu until he knew Jeremy was out of sight, and then grabbed the envelope. He patted all his pockets, checking for his equipment. Confident, as always, he tapped his watch three times and vanished.

The T.A. had been in beta testing for over 2 years now, but Marc had managed to 'acquire' one early. Designed for people who couldn't apparate, the watch had failed to see commercial release due to the insane production price; many families would have to save up for a year just the buy the strap. Developed by the Department of Mysteries, it's recipe and overall creation was rated Code: Magnolia; for comparison, the recipe for Coca-Cola was rated Code: Pink, or five levels lower. You simply had to think of a location, tap the face of the watch three times and ...Poof! Instant vanishing.

Luckily for Marc, the side alley he appeared in was vacant, aside for a few rats. The drip-drip-drip of a faulty gutter provided the soundtrack to this particular scene. The rain had completely dispersed at this point, hinting to Marc just how far he'd travelled. The grime on the wall made what look dull and boring look equally dull and boring; except now it was a safety risk. An Auror's job didn't exactly take them too many exotic and beautiful locales, much to their ire.

He knew where he was; the target's apartment was three storeys up. Whilst the T.A. was the most accurate transportation device ever churned out by the Department of Mysteries, it still couldn't take you to a place that you didn't know the specifics of. Also, people may sense something's up when you randomly appear in their bedroom. A gutter clinging to the side of the flats provided a suitable ladder for Marc. He slipped on his gloves, and placed his hands on the soaking gutter. Slowly but steadily, Marc crawled up the gutter like ivy to a wall. Luckily, the other two windows had closed curtains, so terrified people were not a problem; too many times startled women had called the Muggle police when he had crawled past their bathroom window. As he approached the third window, he fished into his pocket for a skeleton key. Whilst Alohoroma would open the lock, it can leave a slight trace detectable by the right people; the wrong people for Marc, as it turns out. As he reached the window, he suddenly realised that windows don't open from the outside. Logic, as to be expected from a killer, was not Marc's strong point. Throwing caution to the wind, Marc curled his hand into a fist and obliterated the glass in the window.

Picking glass from his bloody hand, Marc entered the room. It was shrouded in darkness, and the overall attire complimented it well. A seatee in the corner was slouched, defeated from taking too much weight for far too long. A stack of pizza boxes, a pyramid of beer cans, an overflowing bin; the man was not a hygiene freak. Marc's face lit up with a smirk when he realised he'd broken the one window in the entire place; the land-lord was going to be pissed...

The light coming from underneath a doorway was the only clue that life was actually in the room at all. Sneaking open the door, Marc observed his prey for the first time.

The bald spot on the top of his head was the first thing to come into view, followed immediately by the terrible sunburn under it. A thick set of glasses adorned his face, riding atop a large bulbous nose. His eyes were closed, and his thick, fat lips smothered the air that slid through his lungs as he snored. His wife-beater was torn, and massive pit stains were instantly noticeable. His slouched pants were far too tight for Marc's pleasure; they couldn't be too comfortable for the man either. The man was the epitome of slob, more of a slug than man.

"Wake up" Marc barked at him. The man awoke with a jolt, kicking the table in front of him, knocking the TV, showing last week's Scrubs, up into the air and straight into the floor, smashing the screen. He turned around slowly, dragging air into his lungs. His eyes squinted at Marc, absorbing every detail of him.

"Good morning to you to!" The man responded with a snap.

"It's afternoon actually, approaching three o'clock."

"What does it matter? They don't write time of death on your tombstone."

"I take it you know why I'm here then?"

"Of course, don't most of your victims meet you with a mixture of surprise and urine?"

Marc knew he shouldn't, but he laughed. What did it matter, it's not like he was going to tell anyone.

"You know I need it back then." Marc told him, cutting straight to the chase.

"Wow, aren't you a monotonous character indeed. They told me you'd be like this, but I imagined an Auror to be more exciting."

"That's an illusion we've been trying to escape for the past 20 years, the magic- James Bond types."

"At least Bond is charming..."

"At least Bond villains are interesting." Marc snapped back

"Finally, some bite in you!" The man smiled,"presumably you have this place under surveillance?"

"Nope, just you and me." Marc lied. It always made it seem more intimate, and more professional if you did it by yourself. However, protocol dictates that three Aurors be assigned to top-level cases. One was poised in the bush outside; the other was renting the room across the hall for the past three weeks.

"Well, I'm sorry to say you're too late." The man said matter-of-factly,"I sent that package along its merry way almost 2 hours ago"

"You people never make this easy, do you?" Marc sighed.

"Please, where's the fun if there's no challenge?" The man chuckled. "And what a challenge it will be..."

"Oooh, I'm so scared," Marc retorted.

"Surely, you realise the repercussions if you fail?"

"Of course... I don't get payed at the end of the month."

"Do you mean to tell me you don't know what information was on that package?"

"Not my place to care"

"Please, it really is. Also, I might recommend taking a course in Muggle studies. For example, this is a gun." The man said, cool as ice. "And whilst it does leave a trace, unlike your precious killing curse, and I dare say it's just as effective. And as far as I'm aware, there's no spell to block a bullet."

Marc's Muggle knowledge was basic, but he knew how a gun worked. He was right, Protego and all the other defensive spells were workless.

"So, you best hurry up, or you'll be left scratching your head, my dear little Auror." He said, "This line of investigations just ran out".

"And one final clue, 'The muggles will find a way'"

Marc stared at him, confused. "What makes you think I won't get information out of you?" He stated, trying to get a response out of him.

The man smiled at him, and said simply "This"

Then he stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.


	3. In The Heat

"What a bloody mess!" The man growled at Marc. "What the fuck happened!?"

Marc was hauled into the head Auror's office after the other Aurors realised that they couldn't exactly interrogate a man without half his head. The Department of Magical Cleanup and Recovery, or the 'Janitors' as they were affectionately known by the Aurors, were called in to properly remove any sign that Marc had been there. It would take several weeks to remove Marc's fingerprints off every piece of trash that the slob had collected, and don't get me started on the blood.

"A slight complication" Marc replied. Marc had a particular knack for down-playing an event gone wrong; he once convinced an ex-girlfriend that it was a good thing he missed her father's funeral.

"A slight complication! Do you have any idea the definition of the word slight! Slight is not half a block of flats aware of a gunshot! Slight is not informing neighbours how there was a localised gas leak! Slight is not a man, with half his head around the bloody room!" The man was wheezing as he attempted to roar in Marc's face, a strong omen of weak health. His clothes were a perfectionists dream, but his hair was closer to a stylist's nightmare. What little hair he had left was long and flowing, forming a crown of weeds around his head. He smelled of dull, and reeked of normality. He wasn't just the definition of boring; he was the full stop. Ben Umbridge came from a different kind of family, where obedience was awarded above all. It was a surprise to absolutely no-one when he was made Head Auror; a lapdog like him could do the barking the Minister was too afraid to do.

"It's not like I walked away from that empty handed..." Marc said, obviously contemplating his words carefully.

"No, I've heard enough about that god-dammed clue!" Ben snapped at him. To be honest, it was a fair point; Marc had only talked about the clue ever since he came back, in the armed custody of a group of Auror's. Not that it would do much mind, he could have killed all of them before they'd reached the hallway.

"The Muggles will find a way." Marc mumbled into his hands, stroking his chin as he thought. He tumbled the sentence around in his mind, flinging it against the walls of his mind, hoping to smash it to pieces.

"My boot will find its way up your ass unless you shut your mouth!"

"I thought you liked mysteries?" Marc snapped at him, finally annoyed by the degrading demeanour. "Want to know my favourite? I call it the Mystery of the Slutty Secretary. Which dirty old man has the slut outside been having an affair with? And don't worry, there are no wrong answers; every dirty old pervert has had a bit of that."

"Shut the fuck up!" Ben snapped, completely losing his facade of a calm personality. "Get out!"

Marc pretended to act scared, fumbling with his briefcase as he jumped to his feet. In his fake-attempt to escape from the office, he kicked over a vase containing flowers, each of them perfectly pruned. The note attached to it was simple, reading _Dearest Ben_, signed with a blob of red lipstick that was supposed to resemble a kiss. Marc stifled laughter as he got out of the office and entered the hallway outside. This was the fifth time Marc had been called into Ben's office, the fifth time that his technique had worked; This was the fifth time Ben had forgotten to discipline him, which worked out conveniently for Marc.

"What, may I ask, is so funny?" Jennet whipped at him. The fury with which she said those words turned her signature red lips into a blur. She was dying to please her boss, and several rumours' (most of them true) revolved around where those red lips travelled during their meetings. If he was the lapdog, then she was the bitch.

Marc pretended to blow a kiss at her, then prowled down the lane of typewriters. Under-Secretaries were furiously pounding away on the type writers; drawing up reports, signing manifestos, providing eye candy to the crowd of men who, like dogs in heat, hung off their every word. Marc, whilst not immune to this power, seemingly had more self-control than the pack of men practically humping their legs as the secretaries pretended to try and type.

Reaching the elevators on the other side, he pounded the call elevator button. It wasn't that he was desperate to get away; it's just that where he was going was so much more interesting. Finally, the ding sounded, and Marc stepped inside. The buttons were worn after 50 years of use, but the number 6 was just visible; it seemed more like brail than actual writing.

After travelling in that vertical hell for 2 minutes, he arrived. He stepped out and brushed into two employees. The look of anger on their faces quickly dissipated when they saw who it was; they quickly walked off, attempting to cover their asses from the volcano that was Marc. He walked up to the furthest door from the elevator, and knocked twice in on the door, a quick rap-rap.

"Who is it?" A quiet voice squeaked out from behind the door.

"You know who it is." Marc stated calmly, but with a hint of aggression. He hated this part of his job more than any other, both for the dullness and the complete and utter humiliation of it. He said, calmly once more,

"Give me Weasley".


	4. Morning Catch-Up

A slot on the door was pushed across, and a set of electric blue eyes stared at him. Whilst the colour was magnificent, the panda-like quality hinted at how little sleep the owner of these eyes got.

"She's not in at the moment, but I'll be glad to take a messa-"

Her rehearsed line was cut short by the slam of Marc's fist against the door, and the ferocious roar that accompanied it.

"Just let in me, God-dammit!" Marc shouted through the timber frame, pounding on it with both fists, making it shake nearly as much as the nervous wreck on the other side of it. The door swung open, and a very nervous-looking women with a very red nose stepped to the side.

"I'm telling you, she's not here!" She said, the hint of terror removing any fear of repercussions. A tall women, with sandy-blond hair tied back in a bun, dressed in an thick business suit with padded shoulders and long sleeves; she was a feminists dream, as if the all the years of the suffragists had been personified into one women. She wouldn't take crap from anyone, as long as that anyone wasn't Marc Dargreaves.

"Why would I give a single rat's arse where Weasley is right now?" Marc barked at here. At 6ft 4, he loomed her, as an elephant to a mouse. It didn't help that she was literally shrinking away from him, every portion of her essence trying to crawl away from this mobile hell.

"Well, you did ask for her?" She replied. Even though it was meant as a statement, her fear turned it into a question.

"Christ," He sighed "Are you going to make this difficult?"

"No"

"No, what?"

"No, sir"

"Good, now fetch me my intelligence. And I swear to God, if you make one smart crack about dumb Aurors, I will end you."

She scurried off, her tail between her legs, through the oak frame on the other side of the room and to the bank of filling cabinets. She quickly scribbled a note on a paper airplane, and chucked it down the length of the banks and out of view. A soft noise, a gentle swoosh, could be heard as the system got to work. Then a gentle humming started, followed by a massive thud, then a ding. The filling cabinet in front of her glowed red, then shot open, propelling a folder into the air. She caught it with both hands, and hurried back to Marc, motioning him to sit at a nearby coffee table.

"Well, this one was a hard one, as we had little evidence and no suspect to interview," At that she stared pointedly at Marc. "However, we have come up with one idea."

"And what's that?" Marc said, bluntly. He no longer cared about being intimidating, not now that she had something to hold over him.

"_The Muggles will find a way_; well, he certainly found a way to avoid your killing curse, didn't he? You know, some might think you've lost your touch." She added, with a slight wink.

"Those some might have more than a sore nose by the end of this..."He said, the venom dripping off his every word.

"OK, point taken. Like I was saying, through his suicide he avoided your killing curse."

"So, what, have you got me going to the suicide capitol of the world?"

"Don't be absurd. I was talking about the gun. Through that, he avoided the killing curse, didn't he. He used a Walter PPK, an ancient handgun that was manufactured in the 1930s"

"Christ, he wasn't joking about all that James Bond stuff"

"Right, the target was also linked a site just over the Welsh border, where they used to manufacture firearms. It's abandoned now, but the site is still largely intact. I'd recommend you hauling your ass over there pronto, before people catch word of a sloth blowing its brains out." She ended, the dark humour bringing a slight smile to her lips.

"How long did that take you work out?" Marc asked, amazed at the quick turnaround.

"Well, we got all the information shortly after noon, and then we went out for lunch. Afterwards, I was chatting to the girls over at the Magical law department, and then I came back here and worked on that. Then you showed up."

"That couldn't have been more than 20 minutes! You're good." Marc said, only realising after the fact that he was supposed to be intimidating.

"I know" She smiled. Not a smile of arrogance, but one of someone who has been earning for recognition.

"But next time, try to organise these properly will you? A pile of vomit is more centralised than this." He knew that would knock the wind out of her sails, and remove the risk of her inflating her ego. Sally Tyke was a genius, but the less she knew about that the better. As foreshadowed by her father, who once had a promising political career, arrogance was the bane of the family. Quite why she was working in The Department of Intelligence in Regards to Auror/Muggle Relations (Or, Intelligence AM for short) was beyond anyone's wildest guess. The Post-War years had really opened up spaces for promising youngsters in politics, and chief amongst the promising was Sally. Some would argue that the inequality, still rife in the Ministry, was what kept Sally behind a desk and not in front of a crowd, as her other male colleges gradually got promoted around her. In fact, no department was a better suited to showcase the inequality of the Ministry; 3 women worked in Intelligence AM, 1 is the department head, 1 is Sally and the other is a cleaner. Ever since the public right to vote was revoked, women gradually saw their roles and influence decrease, as paranoid men kept other paranoid men in charge. A common Pre-War saying was 'You have to be a dick to be a Politician'; Post-War, it was more appropriate to acknowledge 'You have to have a dick to be a Politician'.

"Always nice to talk to you Marc," She said "Even if you are a complete arse. I would show you the door, but I'm afraid it wouldn't hit you on the way out"

"No need," Said Marc, fishing around in his pockets. He grabbed it, the cold metal stinging his hands, and slapped it on his wrist. "They let me keep the T.A."

"Oh no, don't you dar-"

But, with a poof, he was gone. The vacuum his sudden departure created blasted a wall of air into the tower of carefully stacked papers, spilling them over Sally. She simply sighed, and sank a little further into her seat.


	5. Chasing the Breadcrumb Trail

Marc appeared in an abandoned car park, kneeling down to reduce impact, the wind blowing his western-duster style coat. The slight drizzle was slowly making his short crop blond hair steadily darker. On regular missions, an Auror would be expected to wear a disguise, but sometimes the best disguise is the slightest alteration. The only difference made to Marc's face was a sharper nose, and some contacts resulting in his Jungle-Green eyes mutating into smoky Gray. An evolution of the Polyjuice potion had resulted in this breakthrough for the Aurors, resulting in potentially permanent changes. The only drawback was that only minor differences could be achieved, not a complete change as offered by Polyjuice. But, the chance for long term disguises greatly out-weighed the cons. The antidote was located in a small capsule behind the teeth, similar to cyanide capsules used by spies in the 1940s; this could have just as deadly an effect, if chewed on at the wrong time.

Marc slowly got to his feet, and scanned the area around him. In amongst the fly-tipped rubbish and dead animals, he noticed a small steel door into the main compound of the factory. But it was not that drew his attention. Far to the left, between two burned out cars was a small puddle of some dense, thick liquid. As he approached it, he confirmed what he already suspected. It was blood. The lack of a body indicated that this was no accident, and the density of it ruled out survival.

Murder. Very efficient, brutal murder. Whilst most would be scared, concerned or even a little miffed, Marc was pleased. At least this meant that something exciting was going to happen and Marc loved a little confrontation. Mixed into the bluebells and the yellowed, dead grass was the steady pattern of blood. Like a morbid breadcrumb trail, it acted as a trail leading right to the door. He approached it, and noticed the sign on the door, which read;

"Derelict, Defunct and soon-to-be-Demolished. Do not enter."

Marc rattled the handle, and noticed the rust breaking off the hinges when he shook it. He slammed against it with his massive fist, but to no avail. With legs like an ox, he kicked against the door, but still it stood. He took a deep breath, calming himself, and prowled slowly backwards. He stared at the door, estimating its weight. He charged, roaring like a bull, and ploughed into the door, sending it flying off its hinges, and Marc with it. He tumbled head first into the main area, transforming his fall into a roll and jumping to his feet. It was a long dark hallway, looking like a reception dragged out of hell. A wall, with a single glass window, was all that separated him from a bank of controls. Determined not to be picking glass out his fists this time, he grabbed a rock and flung it straight through the window. The sharp smash was followed by a thud as the rock collided with a lever, snapping it clean in half. Crawling through the gap, he examined the mass of controls. Fortunately, the only thing damaged was that lever. Unfortunately, that lever was the only thing that controlled the doors. Essentially meeting a dead-end, he started looking for another way around. He spotted an air vent overhead, and clambered up to it.

Before climbing through it, he chucked a wall of fire down it. Aside from slightly scorched rats, and a crispy selection of Butterflies, Marc spied another wall of flame appearing in the next room. Slowly, inch-by-inch, he crawled through the vent, until he landed on his face in the other room. Behind him, the massive door that was now acting as a wall was dark with age, but the layers of discarded moss hinted at its recent use. That, and the two men standing guard in front of it. Thick, Tall and imposing, Marc had never seen humans that bore such a resemblance to trolls in his life. He all ready had his wand ready when he spotted their guns. Seeing as many wizards would have no clue what guns are, it was safe to assume that these lumps were Muggles. That threw a spanner in the works, as Marc couldn't use a killing curse on a Muggle, unless he liked the thought of the unemployment line. He had to rush them, before they had a chance to fill his sorry ass with lead. A distraction was in order it seemed, and several rocks fitted that role perfectly. He picked up a sizable bolder, and sprinted with full force at the two Mountains. Mid sprint, he chucked the rock at the goon on the left, making him keel over and spilling his gun over the icy ground. The lump on the right turned around, just in time to hear Marc say, in a very formal way;

"Morning boys," With that, he jumped and sunk his feet into the man's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. As the man fell to his knees, Marc sent his fist upwards in a soaring uppercut, connecting with the man's jaw and knocking him off his feet with the sheer force. A well-aimed, if slightly cruel, kick to the head ensured that the man was out before he had a chance to shout for help. Marc was just admiring his handiwork when a monster of a hand closed around his shoulder, gripping it so tightly that it was almost popped out of place. Acting on instinct, he swung his elbow into the man's kidneys, replacing the fist on his shoulder with a groan of pain. He turned to face his attacker, and saw a fist flying towards his face.

He was sent flailing backwards, and slammed against the wall. He tried to stand, but the dizziness from the punch sent him face first into the floor. The coarse, harsh laugh told Marc not only that the man was confident, he was also doomed. Zeroing in on the noise, he swept his foot in a wild manner, making the man cry out and slam his head on the floor. Now, both equally handicapped, they struggled on the floor. Marc managed to get the assailant into a choke-hold, and slowly forced the air out of his body. As the twitching of his foot subsided, Marc got to his feet, dusted himself off and pilfered through their pockets. Luckily, one of the idiots held the key to the next room on him, so Marc quickly swiped that. He considered taking their guns, but heavy, loud assault rifles aren't exactly known for their stealth capabilities.

In the next room, Marc found himself in a courtyard. There was a central garden area, open to the roof, with balconies surrounding it. There were no doors on the ground floor, but there was at least one on the upper floor. Using a supporting pillar as a ladder, Marc sprinted up the side and leaped unto the balcony. He smashed down the glass door, and entered into a room which looked like a command centre. A set of documents were sprawled across the table next to a computer monitor. Marc had next to no knowledge about computers, so it might as well have been a rock on the table. He started to flick through it, when a loud beeping noise filled his thoughts. He palmed the documents, and started to run to the balcony. Suddenly, a door splintered into a million pieces, and a small army of men armed with assault rifles burst through it. Marc took off, and jumped from the balcony, landing in the courtyard below. The thud he made as he landed was accompanied by a crack as the bones in his left hand crumpled. Shaking his hand, he stood up to see at least twenty men descending down the balcony on ropes. He sprinted to the door, and swung it open. In his panic, he slammed straight into a monster of a man.

Long black hair flowed over his shoulders, and his face was adorned with too many scars to count. One of them was a long vertical slash over his left eye, which was slightly discoloured resulting in a disturbing brown with a puddle of red. His teeth were perfect, contrasting brilliantly with his ravaged lips. A strong jaw line made him look like a perverted action man, and he had the physique to match. He was the stuff nightmares are made off, and there was no humanity in those eyes. He crouched down to Marc, and assessed him with those terrible eyes. After what seemed like a lifetime, he stood up, and addressed his troops.

"Take him." His voice was cold, cruel, uncaring. The sort of voice you might adopt to scare away muggers, a distinct lack of any emotion was what made it so shocking. "Who saw him first?"

"Me, sir, it was I who spotted him!" a man stepped forward, with his chest pushed up and his head held high.

"Then why, I ask, is he still alive?" With that, the man deflated like a balloon, looking more like a chick than a peacock.

"S-Sir, I... I tried sir, he was too fas- I mean, he got awa-"

The monster sighed with disappointment, stepped forward, and placed his hand on the man's face. He started to squeeze, his fingers tensing up.

"No, please, no! I'll try better, please, no!"

He snapped his fingers down on the man's face, and crunched his head up like a tin can. Some blood squirted out as the man roared with anguish, fell to his knees and finally, after what seemed like years of screaming, died. Nothing had changed on the monsters face, no flicker of rage or regret. He seemed completely at peace at what he just done.

"Take him."

And with that, Marc was dragged downstairs, and into the monster's lair.


End file.
